


It only takes two lonely people;

by tarquin



Category: Rooster Teeth Productions RPF
Genre: M/M, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarquin/pseuds/tarquin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"it only takes a drop of evil</i>
  <br/><i>to fuck up two beautiful people."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes Gavin kills people. And when he does, it’s Michael he turns to in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It only takes two lonely people;

**Author's Note:**

> vent writing. deaths of nameless figures are there, but aren't detailed. mentions of fucking.

Sometimes Gavin kills people. And when he does, it is Michael he turns to in the aftermath. It’s almost always the same thing too. A phone call after midnight, a long car ride into the heart of woods no one knows better than them, usually a chaste kiss shared while the sun crawls up the horizon. And Gavin _promises_ to do better next time.

Michael knows he’s lying through his teeth, but he lets it slide.

Because the thing is, Michael’s been killing people a lot longer than Gavin has, and the change of pace is so refreshing that he doesn’t even mind the sweat stained novelty t-shirts and the thorough clean ups in the back of his car. And to hear Gavin describe it, that rush of lightning that comes with felling a hammer or igniting a flame, it validates him. It makes his blood run fast and hot and he revels in the fact that someone else understands.

They tell each other it’s an addiction and not a hobby, and certainly not something they enjoy. They whisper these lies while their bodies entwine in the back of Michael’s car or in Gavin’s rented room in the midst of an empty house or wherever they end up the morning after a long night.

And these boys are drawn to each other for many, many reasons, but more than anything it becomes the smell of ash and freshly overturned earth that keeps them close. And though during the day they remain as always, friendly enemies who bicker and banter until they’re off the clock and free to go, but the setting sun brings them together again. They sit in the backs of diners; fingers twined like tree roots, and through hushed whispers they recant tales of being scared angry teenagers pushed far past their limits.

Michael’s first had been the mailman who liked to flirt with his mother just a little too much. It’d been swift and messy and those crime shows he’d watched at a young age had aided him in just scraping under the radar, wide eyed and innocent as policemen had asked his mother about the last time she’d spoken with the man.

They never suspected him and the case went unsolved. 

When he was sixteen his mother asked him if he’d ever tried pot, or been addicted to anything dangerous. He’d shrugged and muttered, _of course not. Don’t be crazy._

Gavin doesn’t remember his first, but that’s not surprising. He does remember that it had been filthy, _gobs_ of blood, and to this day he doesn’t know how he got away with it. But he can recount in sparkling detail about the rush it gave him. About the power he’d felt in his hands and how afraid he’d been of the fact that he wasn’t afraid.

x + x

Michael doesn’t kill more than he has to. He lets it build inside of him, curl around and consume him, until he snaps. It’s always on someone who, by his standards anyway, had it coming. 

Gavin isn’t as patient, and his late night calls come in intervals of months. He’s meticulously clean about it though, too squeamish to work with blood. He instead works with pills, the little devils he can’t master, and if he’s feeling particularly feisty, a pair of gloved hands are his weapon of choice. His victims are anyone and everyone, and the highs he gets are blights on the back of his eyelids.

When Gavin sits there, whispering about the oblong white tablets slipped between ex-lover’s lips, Michael’s heart starts to pound and his eyes go wide and he grabs Gavin and pulls him close, swallowing his words, drinking them down. No one makes it sound as good as Gavin does, no one chases the high as hard as him.

Michael clings to him and doesn’t let go.

x + x

“One day I’m gonna help you, ya’ know.” Gavin says in the height of summer, his thin t-shirt soaked through with sweat as Michael tends to the flame of someone Gavin doesn’t know the name of. It’s messy and sweltering and they’re going to be painted with bug bites come morning, but that’s too far away to consider. Instead Michael replies with a short laugh, snorting, yeah, sure.

“I’m serious!” Gavin insists, pulling Michael’s damp smelly body closer to his, not even flinching when their collars brush and squish and drip. Michael’s mouth still tastes like the toothpaste he used before bed and it doesn’t meld kindly with the leftover traces of bourbon on Gavin’s tongue.

“I don’t need your help.” Michael says, pulling away and fixing his glasses.

“Well it’s not fair that I get all the fun.” Gavin insists.

Michael stares at Gavin, all of a panting mess with eyes still wide, fingers splayed on his hip, throat begging to be touched and tasted and bruised. Michael can almost feel his pupils dilate.

“The only thing I can imagine to be more fun than this,” he says, “Would be to watch you in the act.”

Gavin’s face lights up in a grin. Cleanup is painstakingly slow that night and they collapse on the ridge of a riverbed and fuck next to where ashes slide downstream and crickets sing melodies in the grass nearbye.

x + x

Under the duress of Gavin’s hands, the process is something alien and wonderful. Michael stands, a voyeur to the act of someone far more thirsty than him, a human mess who suddenly becomes composed as his hands feel the skin of someone without a name. He knows Gavin is putting on a show for him, drawing it out and making it last and maybe even drawing pinpricks of blood just to hear him moan from the back of the room. It’s incredible.

They’re broken. Diseased and poisoned and hopeless and Michael could sing because these thoughts don’t apply to him alone. Because as Gavin appears in the threshold of his bedroom with an old ratty tarp, when Michael ties bows pretty enough for Christmas presents, and when they carry slack weight into the trunk of Michael’s truck, looking forward to a long night of burning or digging or raw bareback fucking, he knows he’s not alone.

Sometimes Gavin kills people, and when he does it is _beautiful._


End file.
